My Name Is Not Isla

Josh & Anna and Gabe & Claire

The Lost Souls Series

Forgive Me

Redeem Me

Save Me

The Faraway Novels

The Devil’s Playground

The Lion’s Den

The Shore House Novels

Full Share

Short Stories

The Best Man

Finding Faith

The Dark Horse (an erotic short)

Table of Contents

My Name Is Not Isla

Also by Eliza Freed

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

An excerpt from The Devil’s Playground

An excerpt from Josh & Anna and Gabe & Claire

About the Author

For all those who’ve been silenced.

The time is now.

Evil creeps in the same way a person dies in their sleep.

Peacefully and comfortably.

Until one moment you realize, your entire world is dark.

Isla, my love,

I’m dying inside. I can’t get through to you. You’ve stopped listening, or is it that you refuse to believe me? You showed up at the bar last night and sat next to me without an ounce of love in your eyes. Just floated in as if you weren’t there for me. Your phone, the bartender, and the fans who stopped by to annoy you and finally made you leave—they all seemed more important than me.

When I said your name, I saw it. The rejection in your eyes. The dead stare. The end is coming if we don’t change something. I wanted to shake you and scream, It’s me. Ian. The one person who really knows you.

The only person who truly loves you. The others are using you. All they care about is the money. You’re exhausted. You need a break. I get it, but it’s me. It’s always been me.

I’ll never let you go. You are my whole life, and we belong together. You know it as well as I do. You’re the only thing that matters in this world to me.

Love,

Ian

Isla

THE AIR CONDITIONER kicked on again, and a ray of light beamed through the thick curtain where it billowed away from the window. I pulled the comforter up to my neck and rolled onto my stomach. It was June, and I was freezing. The great Cruz Allen always felt hot when he did too much cocaine, so the thermostat was turned down to a chilly sixty-one degrees. Wouldn’t want him to sweat while he was snorting powder up his nose from the center of my glass-topped coffee table.

The stale light and the frigid air made me feel as if I were waking up in a morgue rather than my apartment overlooking the park. I guess that was what I got for picking the view and tiny balcony. I didn’t want a grand terrace where I could entertain fifty people. I wanted to be as close to alone as possible, even if just for a few minutes of the day.

I looked from the window to Cruz, whose broad shoulders hid his head almost entirely because of the angle he was lying. He’d taken up most of the bed and left me with a sliver near the edge. Cruz believed he was welcome everywhere. He rolled over, and the wretched sound of him clearing his throat while he slept repulsed me. I was the only person in the world repelled by him.

I hadn’t always felt this away about him, and I knew it wasn’t Cruz’s fault. He was only born this way, and I—like the rest of the world—was drawn to him at first. He was an undeniable magnet, but with every word he spoke, my attraction to him faded a little more. I imagined his mother, pregnant and surrounded by her publicist and therapist and makeup artist, going over the possible names of a demigod soon to be born with the last name Allen. She’d have toasted herself when the name Cruz was decided, as if she’d cured cancer or discovered a gene associated with Parkinson’s. She had, of course, given birth to an icon. He was the vision of first love for every teenage girl around the world.

Cruz reached out and draped his lanky arm across my back. Sorry about the coke dick, he said, apologizing for his lack of ability the night before. Coke dick, whiskey dick, weed dick. How many inoperable dicks could one man possess?

I wanted to say, This magical powder, which when inhaled makes you feel completely invincible, renders you the type of man who can’t make his dick hard. Instead, I allowed some sound close to, Mmmh, to break free. I wasn’t here to tell Cruz what I thought.

I slipped from the covers and tiptoed into the bathroom. He was obviously awake, but I wanted him to think he was still sleeping. Cruz was easily fooled. Especially when it appeared someone was taking care of him.

I shook the snow globe on the counter and watched the tiny white particles fall over the little girl with her arms in the air and her mouth opened wide as if she were singing. It was the last gift my mother had given me before she died. Lift your voice to the Lord, she’d said.

Why the hell do you have a snow globe in your bathroom? Cruz had asked the night before when I brought him home to my apartment for the first time and he saw it perched on the counter next to my toothbrush.

I laughed, and he forgot the question as he sipped the vodka and cranberry his trainer had suggested to reduce his calorie intake. I didn’t tell him that the bathroom was the only room where no one could see the little girl singing in the snow. She wanted to be hidden.

I splashed water on my face and searched for a glimpse of my former self. My skin was pale from sleeping in and working late. The tour had robbed me of my circadian rhythm. I wouldn’t dwell on the other parts of me it’d stolen. I clicked off the light and opened the door to find Cruz still in bed.

Come back to bed. I’m ready for you, Cruz said without rolling over to face me. Effort was a foreign concept to him. He was the son of an Academy Award-winning actress and her director ex-husband. Cruz hadn’t lifted a finger since the first time he’d moved his arm. Isla, he yelled, obviously not realizing I was standing right there. The name sickened me like rotten milk poured down my throat. Take off your top and come back here.

I’d heard enough. Probably six months ago when I first spoke to Cruz, I’d heard enough, but at my publicist’s insistence, I kept listening. Ramona thought Cruz and I were perfect together. Hollywood’s elite and Billboard’s number one pop star. The sun shone bright upon us, and together, we made Ramona’s job easy. The only thing bigger than Isla Monroe or Cruz Allen was the two of us as a couple.

Isla!

I rolled my eyes, more at my reality than at Cruz, and strode from the room and into the kitchen. I filled the teapot and lit the flame. It felt proper. People with real lives took time to drink a hot beverage in the morning. It was a ritual shared by millions. While the water heated, I walked back toward my bedroom window, opened the curtains, and let the light drench the room as I ignored Cruz’s grumble of annoyance. The street was already full of cars stopped in traffic because of the red light two blocks away, and the sidewalk across it was occupied by dog walkers, joggers, and two men standing next to each other talking. I knew their messenger bags were filled with cameras and tripods and cell phones. They were the familiar shadow wherever I went and were usually joined by several more just like them.

I squared my jaw and straightened my back. I’m done with this.

Daylight? Cruz asked as he faced the morning.

No. I swirled my finger in a circle between us. This.

What the hell are you talking about?

I didn’t want to be cruel. Cruz was so delicate. The soft cloud he’d been raised upon utilized alcohol and every other drug to solve the problems money could not. He wasn’t used to conflict, confrontation, or rejection. The world was a horrible place, though.

This. Coke dick, hiding out, going out . . . you not showing up when you’re supposed to. Caring more about what we look like than what we feel like. He’d be sorry he asked, because I’d woken with a vengeance. The constant need for validation and the search for it in the pages of a magazine. All of it.

He sat up in bed and studied me. You’re fucking with me.

I’m not. You can have anyone you want. They’re literally waiting at your doorstep.

Yeah, so they can get knocked up or sell a picture of my dick to the tabloids. My gaze dropped down to his coke dick before I could catch myself. "Besides, I want you. I love you, Isla. Cruz dropped the word love" like a grain of sand on the beach. It meant nothing since there were a million more like it to follow.

You don’t even know my name. I tried not to let the words sound as lost as I felt. Cruz might not have known my name, but I didn’t recognize myself these last few years.

I know you, and the fact that you’re just lost since the tour ended. You get this way when there’s no work, you know?

How can you say that? This is the first time I’ve had a day off since I’ve known you.

Because unlike everyone else in this business, you never complain. You act like it’s a real job and there’s some way of having a life outside it, but you’re no different than the rest of us.

I hated when Cruz tried to make sense. I wished he’d just leave. Isn’t it? A job?

"No. Do you actually think your life is equivalent to that of a chef or a sales clerk at Bergdorf’s? This work, as you call it, is your reason for existence, and when it slows, you feel like you’ve died. You seek out the next thing like a drug. Every movie, every song, every appearance is to maintain your relevance. That’s the only way you’re alive. No one understands it."

He sounded like the men in this industry who used to enchant me. In my early twenties, I’d sipped vodka and listened as they described our existence as floating above the mere mortals working beneath us. Ours was an inconceivable reality and a gift bestowed upon us from the Gods, but Cruz’s heaven was quickly becoming my hell.

Until they’ve lived it, he said and climbed out of bed. His coke dick, as I would forever call it in my head, hung between his legs. The lean muscles in his thighs continued up to his trim waist and lanky arms. Cruz was not in amazing shape. That would require him to work at it, and he didn’t have to. He had a big dick, a larger ego, and talent. Cruz Allen was unstoppable. Maybe you just need to take a break.

I just suggested that.

Not from me. He leaned down and kissed my cheek as if I hadn’t just told him we were over.

My phone knocked with a text notification on the side table. The message read Call Me, and was from Ramona.

Have Jared call Ramona, and they can put out a joint statement, I told Cruz.

He stopped walking to the bathroom and turned on his heels. His wide eyes bore into me. You’re serious about this?

Yes. I’m done.

He roughly ran his hand through his hair and across the back of his neck. Jared’s on his honeymoon. I promised I’d leave him alone for a few days.

I shook my head and tried to retain my resolve. Of course. There’s no rush. They can break us up whenever.

Then go out with me tonight. His smile was criminal. He’d been convincing me of stuff for months, but today, that was ending.

I’m calling Ramona. I took my phone back into the kitchen and dialed the only person who was always on my side, even when it made her job harder. I poured a cup of tea and warmed my fingers around the cup.

Did you sleep in? she asked without saying hello. We spoke so many times a day that greetings were unnecessary.

I did. It’s good to be home.

A fourteen-month worldwide tour will make you miss your bed.

I still missed my bedroom at Mama’s house in North Carolina, but that’d been torn down years ago. About that . . . I want to take some time off.

That’s what I was calling to talk about. We’ve received several offers from Caribbean properties that are exclusive enough to house you and whomever you want to bring with you. Not sure of Cruz’s schedule. Jared’s out of town.

I inhaled and tried to take it all in. Offers for what?

Accommodations, drinks, excursions, whatever you want, as long as we leak a picture of you on the property.

I was actually thinking of a few months . . .

What?

A significant amount of time. Maybe go home for a while.

No. Even through the phone, I could sense her shaking her head violently back and forth. You are the hottest woman in the world right now. You can’t go anywhere. Unless it’s to elope with Cruz Allen on a beach.

Ramona—

Not Vegas. Britney ruined that one already. Maybe the coast of Africa. Give me a few hours. I knew she was already on her laptop.

You’re not listening. Cruz and I are done.

He’s in your apartment right now. She was indignant.

How do you know that?

I just read it online. What’s going on?

Nothing. Cruz walked into the room, and the sunlight behind him framed his body. He poured himself a glass of milk and sat on the bar stool at my kitchen island without a piece of clothing on. I’ve got to go.

Ramona hung up, and I wrapped my fingers back around my cup. The Bible on the counter caught my eye. The papers hung out of the pages at random intervals. The cream-colored sheets carried words written by a man I never really knew. His notes spoke of love and connection and pushed me further away with each one that was delivered. They should have been in a shoebox, or the trashcan, but the Bible would protect me.

Do you want pancakes? Cruz asked, and I let out a resigned sigh.

Isla

WE PASSED DICK in my apartment lobby. His name wasn’t really Dick, not even Richard, but since he never actually spoke to me except in grunts, I’d taken to calling him Dick in my head. He was overweight and sweaty and somehow hired by Victor Addario to head my security detail. As president of my record label, it was not uncommon for Victor to have some say in all aspects of my career, including the team that surrounded me, but Victor’s interests went far beyond what was customary in this insane industry.

Dick’s eyes fell from my head, down to my chest, and finally rested near my groin. He was foul. His expression was one of disdain, as if he resented having to watch me, which was ironic, since it was what I hated him for.

He lingered too long in dressing rooms under the guise of thorough execution of his duties.

Just doing my job, he had said, running his oversized hands through the clothes in my suitcase before we’d left Atlanta. Some creep could’ve been in here.

Or is right now, I’d said and pissed him off.

He always had a reason for his intrusions where no other security felt the need to be. Dick stared at me instead of speaking as I made my way to the front door. The urge to be away from him practically slapped me on the back of the head.

My instincts consistently told me to flee from him, but he was literally being paid to make that impossible. He was gross and another one of my shadows. When I brought it up to Victor, he asked, Has he touched you? The threat of death depending on the answer.

No, I’d begrudgingly admitted. We’d had this conversation in various forms several times. I wanted this ape gone from my life, and Victor always insisted he stay.

You’re being dramatic, Isla. Having a security team may not be comfortable, but it’s necessary. Now more than ever. Victor’s most potent power was convincing me I felt differently than I actually did.

Good morning, Ms. Monroe, Alex said with a generous smile and stood straight next to the front desk in my lobby. He was Dick’s partner and always kind.

Morning, Alex.

Dick continued to sneer as I brushed by. The cold hatred surrounding him stopped me from moving. I wasn’t imagining it. I took a second to listen. My feelings were real. I was going to hear them from there on out. Dick was the first of many things I wasn’t afraid to leave without saying goodbye.

Outside, Cruz helped me into the waiting car. The traffic had thinned, and Cruz told the driver to stop on a side street near the restaurant. There were no cameramen in sight, but that was temporary. The two of us together couldn’t avoid them; although, it often felt as if I were the only one trying. Cruz loved the spotlight in any form.

The hostess did a double take when Cruz flashed his Internet-ready smile at her, but the waitress didn’t recognize us at all. I used to wait tables in North Carolina. If you were good at the job, you didn’t have time to care who you were serving. This waitress was excellent.

I perused the menu while Cruz glanced back at the couple behind me. I could hear them whispering our identities and assumed they were trying to figure out how to take our picture. Whether we’d pose with them or if they’d have to take it covertly. This was why I ate most meals at home. Not because I loved to cook. I tuned them out, thankful that at least if they interrupted our breakfast, I wouldn’t have to meet them while I was wearing the sequined body suit and thigh-high boots I had to wear on stage.

Pancakes, French toast, a bagel . . .

Shit. I can’t eat. I have to fit into a batman costime. Cruz leaned toward me and whispered, They’re going to think I’m anorexic or on drugs. At times, I thought he was both. Fuck. They’re already taking pictures.

I abandoned the menu and focused on my soon-to-be ex-boyfriend. Eat. It’s just food. Going into your body.

Yeah, right. You don’t even believe that.

Should what you eat be a topic for anyone other than you and maybe your physician? I was getting the pancakes.

If Jared’s doing his fucking job right, it should be.

We really do see this whole thing differently.

What?

Our impact on society. We should be helping to keep plastics out of the ocean and finding new channels of accessibility for proper mental health care around the world. His mouth fell open at my words. His brow furrowed in repulsion. There are more important things going on than what Cruz Allen has for breakfast.

He leaned into me. Lower your voice. No one wants to hear what Isla Monroe thinks of the environment.

I put my menu down and grabbed my bag off the back of the chair.

Isla, he pleaded. I’m sorry. Please don’t go. The smile on his face was easy and casual, but I knew he was only concerned with how my departure would appear. He was right. I let out a soft sigh and pretended to dig for something in my purse before putting it back down.

The waitress walked up, still seemingly oblivious to our identities, and asked if we were ready to order.

We’ll have two orders of the pancakes with sausage on the side, Cruz said.

We sat in silence while we waited for our food. Cruz read something on his phone. For my own mental health, I didn’t ask him what. I stared out the window until the photographers began to cluster on the sidewalk out front. A picture, a hashtag, a call . . . something, or someone, had clued them into our whereabouts.

Cruz noticed them, too. He leaned back in his seat, satisfied with his continued relevance.

I tilted my head. It was Cruz who’d tipped them off. One corner of his mouth tilted, confirming my suspicion. I rested my hands in my lap and roughly rubbed my thumb against the inside of my palm. As my eyes raked over Cruz, my discontent was replaced with disdain.

Our pancakes were delivered, and even though I hadn’t had them in a year and the smell of the warm butter mixing with the syrup was divine, I was too repulsed by Cruz to eat.

He cut his pancakes and moved them around in the syrup. I can’t eat these, he said. You take a bite and kiss me so I can taste them.

No, I said and forced down a huge bite. He reduced me to a taunting child.

Cruz sneered. The restaurant manager stopped by, stuttered through an awkward conversation, asked whether Cruz was satisfied with his uneaten meal, and comped our bill. The total couldn’t have been more than thirty dollars, but Cruz allowed